Snips and Snails Sugar and Spice
by GalaxieGurl
Summary: This will be a repository of brief stories, mostly free-standing, which pop into my head from time to time. If the rating varies from K, I'll note that when I post the chapter.
1. Chapter 1

Remembering N'awlins

Brennan cracked one eye open and stretched. The first rays of sunlight were slanting through her window shades. Since it was Saturday morning she didn't need to be at the lab quite as early as weekdays. She adjusted her pillow and rolled over, sinking into its feathery depths. Wincing slightly as her torn ear lobe protested, she inventoried the current physical sensations she felt. Her splinted wrist still hurt if she flexed it, and her temple was still tender beneath the yellowing bruise there. Shuddering at what else could have occurred in Graham Legiere's house, she thought back to the conversation she'd had with Booth in the New Orleans cafe.

"Why are you nice to me?" she'd asked him.

"Because." Booth had replied, looking her straight in the eye.

"Because they think they get away with it.

What? They burn their victim.

They blow him up.

They toss him in the ocean.

They bury them in the desert.

They throw 'em to wood chippers.

Sometimes, you know, years go by, they relax.

Then they start living their lives like they didn't do anything wrong.

Like they didn't spend somebody else's life in order to get what they got.

They think they're safe from retribution, but you know you make those bastards unsafe.

That's why I'm nice to you."

Her response had been heartfelt. "I couldn't do that without you, Booth."

He had grinned at her. "Yeah. Um, you should be a little nicer to me, huh?"

She remembered her bashful response. "I really should."

He'd given her one of those adorably crooked little smiles of his. "Yeah."

About that time, Caroline had sailed through the café door, putting an end to their quiet exchange. The woman was a force of nature, wrapped in Southern charm, understatement, and obvious force of will.

She was also quite perceptive.

"I walk in on something? - Beignet and a cafe, cher."

The server nodded respectfully, "Yes, ma'am." She produced a coffee mug, and filled it with steaming chicory brew.

Caroline reached to pull out a chair but Booth rose and beat her to it, seating her politely. She winked at him, "Your granpa taught you well, Seeley Booth," she said fondly.

Instantly back to business, the prosecutor turned defense attorney continued talking briskly to the pair, "Hospital records. The tox screen was negative."

Dismissing their surprise at this news, she declared Legiere a notorious horndog, and suggested a plea with three years….

Brennan smiled to herself, remembering Booth's immediate jump to her defense.

"I _do_ need to be nicer to my partner," she mused dreamily as she headed into her shower.

"Especially after he risked his career, reputation, and ethics to _surreptitiously_ retrieve my mother's earring for me. He was really observant to notice it, with Detective Harding carrying on like she was. If not for him, I'd have lost my only keepsake forever. Well, not forever, that doesn't exist but

Angela's right. Booth really is a chivalrous armored knight, but I'd never admit that to him."

A/N: This little snippet resulted from re-watching the Man in the Morgue," one of my many episode favorites. Conversation is borrowed from

. /view_episode_ ?tv-show=bones&episode=s01e19


	2. Chapter 2

Birthday Coke and Nutter Sandwiches

 **A/N: I borrowed the idea for this snippet from one of FaithinBones' wonderful Memorial Day stories, "Memories."**

Booth pulled his SUV into a parking space, turned off the engine, and released his seat belt with a small sigh. As the father of two children with Temperance Brennan, he had long since given up on driving around without using safety restraints. Safer, perhaps, but a pain when you needed to exit a vehicle quickly. And this was one of those times. The occupant of the back seat would have already been out of the truck had it not been for his booster seat preventing access to the seat belt buckle.

Booth smiled to himself, remembering the discussion he'd had with Brennan when they'd purchased the car seat for Christine. He would have indulged his little girl's love of pink and lavender, but his wife insisted upon neutral charcoal gray, since it would blend in with the SUV's interior and hide any future spills. The one they bought for her Prius was royal and navy blue. Once they learned that Hank Jr. was on the way, he'd been glad there was no need to buy a second 'boy' colored seat.

It was James Rawlins' birthday and Booth thought Pops would appreciate an extra visit to his best friend's grave. Booth unbuckled the seat belts, freeing his excited son and handed him a small insulated lunch bag.

"Are these the 'nutter san'wiches and Coke, Daddy?"

"Yup, Bub, just what Pops and James ordered. Come on, he's over here."

Hank remembered when he rode atop his father's broad shoulders to the gravesites.

"Where's all the little flags?" he asked.

"It's not Memorial Day, son. Today is Pop's friend's birthday."

James' white marble tombstone was just off the neatly-manicured roadway, and easy to spot. Booth squatted down on his haunches to be eye-level with his youngest child, and pointed to the lettering.

"R-A-W-L-I-N-S" Hank spelled. "That's his last name, right?"

"Yes. See this date? OCT 12 1924. That was James' birthday."

"That's today," Hank said.

"Yup, it is, only many years later. James would be 96 years old today."

Hank didn't know what to make of that. He had only recently mastered counting to 100. Memorization had come easily to his sister, but he was more interested in Uncle Hodgins' bugs and T-ball. Brennan's patience was frequently strained when drilling her wiggly son on counting. The alphabet had come easily, but for some reason, remembering numerals was a bigger hurdle.

Booth settled cross-legged on the grass, and pulled Hank into his lap. He told Hank how Pops and Corporal Rawlins had been on sentry duty one quiet morning when a Jeep came bouncing down the road. Not having been able to shower for several days, Hank thought the driver and his companions seemed very clean by comparison, and felt his hackles rise-

"I did?" Hank asked, puzzled.

"No, your great-grandfather did. . . ."

He continued his story. The newcomers had answered their challenge questions appropriately, until James asked about Fibber McGee's closet. Suddenly the Jeep's occupants fired on the GIs and a gun battle ensued. When Pops had come to, the Germans were gone and his friend was in bad shape. Ignoring his own injuries, Hank got on the radio and summoned help. Booth didn't share with Hank that Rawlins was near death. There was time for those details in the years ahead. He recounted the soldier's Coke and sandwich last request.

"James loved the peanut butter sandwiches and Coca Cola his mom gave him after school. He asked Pops to bring some and share with him when he visited."

Hank considered this for a moment. "His mommy must've not known that pop causes tooth decay."

Booth stifled a smirk. Brennan's children absorbed her healthy eating doctrine early.

More silence, then, "Daddy, how could James eat them?"

"He didn't, Son, just wanted his best friend to remember him once in a while."

"Well, can we eat now? I'm hungry!"

The pair opened ziplock bags, and Booth popped open their cans. Little Hank took a big bite, then turned to the white marker and saluted.

"Thanks, Mr. Rawlins! You had a great idea! I LOVE nutter san'wiches!"


End file.
